


'the Monster of Piffling Vale'

by unintentionallyangsty



Category: Wooden Overcoats
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, can't believe there's so little h/c written for these two smh, chapyard, rudyard has nightmares and eric is there to comfort, simple stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 14:23:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15051086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unintentionallyangsty/pseuds/unintentionallyangsty
Summary: old habits die hard, and some words leave wounds that last longer than others; both are facts that Rudyard Funn knows only too well, and is about to be reminded of, yet again.(alternatively; Rudyard has (another) nightmare, and Eric is there to listen and comfort. what it says on the tin)





	'the Monster of Piffling Vale'

**Author's Note:**

> basically, i finished Wooden Overcoats on a Friday, spent an entire Sunday re-listening to S1, and proceeded stay awake until midnight that same Sunday writing 2k+ of chapyard fic. naturally. 
> 
> (this is exactly the content you'd anticipate from me *confetti emoji*)

It had started pissing rain almost as soon as the funeral had begun, and Rudyard Funn stood unquavering, attempting desperately to raise his own voice in order to be heard over the weather and the continued, discontented murmuring of the crowd that had congregated.

“Now, see here!” he grumbled, only for the sound to be almost entirely drowned out by someone else’s cry of displeasure at the turn of events. Typical… “Now, hold on just a minute!” he tried again, louder this time, and was satisfied to see that at least a small portion of the attendees had ceased their squabbling, and had now turned to face him from where he stood beside the still open grave, their expressions entirely rapt and expectant.

Well….satisfied may have been a strong word to use…

“I know that--” Rudyard cleared his throat, it having become tight at the amount of attention that had suddenly been thrust in his direction, and began again, “I know that this isn’t exactly...what everyone was expecting. But!” he raised his voice a bit, in order to be heard over the immediately growing murmuring of the audience. “But! It’s what the deceased would have wanted, I believe. And,” here, he paused a moment to study the gaping hole in the ground (and the body that had tumbled entirely out of its coffin and now lay limp, caked in mud and rain water, at the bottom of the pit) for a moment. “A-and, I truly think that--”

“Why,” a voice from the crowd piped up, the tone somehow much more boisterous and demanding than Rudyard was able to manage himself, at this point in time. “Did this tiny, wretched little man get this funeral in the first place?”

Rudyard, for his part, felt his cheeks flush hotly at the words, but made a terrible effort to hold his shoulders straighter; appear at least a couple of inches taller than he was _technically_ due.

“That’s true!” another voice called, from the other end of the cemetery and, before Rudyard could speak, continued, “Samuel was always a well liked man; being the village barkeep, and all. What makes the circumstances of his death so unspectacular that Rudyard Funn was able to land his funeral?”

“N-now!” Rudyard sputtered, ignoring pointedly the increasing tightness of his throat and the insistent, irritating dryness itching behind his eyes. “Now, see here! This isn’t some bloody--some town council where you can all just--speak your piece!” There was a brief pause, and Rudyard straightened his shirt collar (it having gone terribly askew) in what he hoped was a dignified manner before continuing, “Now, Samuel was a good friend of mine. And--”

“Yeah, you visiting his bar so often, he musta been!” someone shouted, prompting some scattered tittering throughout the congregation.

“That--” Rudyard could feel himself flushing, again. “My patronship at Samuel’s place of work has nothing to do with things. We just--”

“Oh, sure.” another voice joined in (one, Rudyard realised with a sickening drop of his gut, sounded a fair bit like their own Georgie Crusoe). “Like hell it doesn’t. Ya know, I’m just wondering…”

“Why didn’t Eric Chapman get this funeral?” someone else finished.

“Why didn’t…” Rudyard swallowed nervously, shifting his weight from foot to foot and wondering, for a brief moment, whether or not he might be able to ascend from his own mortal body, here and now, and leave this entire miserable situation behind him. “Well, he--” 

“Is it because he wasn’t quite as much of a ‘patron’ at Sam’s bar?” the Georgie-Voice spoke again.

“Or did you somehow bribe Samuel, in all that time spent at the bar?”

“Hang on!” Rudyard began, only to be interrupted for what felt like the millionth time.

“Did you two have a long standing deal?”

“Tell us for the press, Rudyard! It’ll make a good story, it will.”

“Did you win this funeral by some...underhanded means?”

“Antigone?” Rudyard croaked, as the familiar voice posed its own question. “Don’t be ridiculous.” at the continued, growing roar of the crowd, Rudyard scowled. “Why is it _so_ unbelievable that I’ve booked this funeral entirely on my own?”

Unsurprisingly, the noise only grew at that (something Rudyard really, _really_ supposed that he should have seen coming), and Rudyard was beginning to mentally map out how he might be able to quietly slip away from this one when a sharp, commanding voice rang out, silencing the squabbling of the crowd almost immediately.

“Now!” the voice cried, not much louder than Rudyard’s had been, but somehow much more demanding of respect (something Rudyard himself refused to feel ashamed about, just yet). “Now, see here! Let’s just take a moment to think things over rationally.”

And, in spite of everything, Rudyard immediately felt his shoulders relax from their previous tension as the crowd parted to reveal the very familiar form of Eric Chapman; stood straight and proud and nearly golden in the late afternoon sunlight.

“Eric,” he found himself breathing, almost moving forward to greet the other man before he thought better of it, and remained rooted where he was; at the other end of the long, cold stretch of the cemetery.

“Funn,” Eric responded, coolly, freezing Rudyard’s breath where it was expelling from his already re-tightening lungs.

There was a beat, and all the eyes of PIffling Vale seemed to rest on the undertakers stood at either end of the lawn for one long, unsteadying moment. Then, as if there hadn’t been a lapse at all, Eric Chapman began to stride forward, his shoulders held tall and proud and his gaze never leaving that of the suddenly shrinking Rudyard.

“Ch-Chapman.” Rudyard greeted, again, as the man stopped just inches from himself, his voice barely more than a whisper, this time. Their breaths mingled, for a moment, and Rudyard willed his eyes to remain open, rather than fluttering comfortably shut as the sensation seemed to automatically prompt.

“Eric!” a voice (sounding almost uncomfortably like Agatha Doyle’s) from the crowd shouted, suddenly, nearly shattering the fragile moment. “How is it that _you_ didn’t end up with this funeral? What do you think is so special about Rudyard?”

“Special?” Eric barked, his tone cooling to near iciness-- and a similar sensation growing within Rudyard’s chest, at the sound of it. “Special?” he repeated, those cool, blue eyes never leaving Rudyard’s as he spoke, “How could there possibly be anything special about such a small, pitiful excuse for a man?” Eric leaned in close, then, his breaths once again mingling with the rapid short ones coming from Rudyard himself. “The monster of Piffling Vale…”

Rudyard’s eyes widened, and he hardly had time to open his mouth in order to release a violent, horrified yell when everything ground to a screeching halt and...and…

\---

“Rudyard... _Rudyard_!” a voice filtered in, past Rudyard’s foggy return to wakefulness, growing more insistent with each repetition of the name.

“Jesus,” came the next murmur, before Rudyard found himself being shaken somewhat forcefully. “ _Rudyard_ ,”

“Yes!” Rudyard yelped, just barely refraining from drawing roughly backwards and away from the hands gripping incessentantly at his shoulders, and instead forcing himself to focus on the warm, familiar voice calling his name. A voice that would have, on any other occasion, felt soft and comfortable, but now, given the circumstances, was beginning to feel more...vaguely threatening...somewhat cold…

His throat tightening with the memory, Rudyard did reel back, then, his eyes snapping open and adjusting to finally land (blearily) on the man perched hesitantly on the opposite end of the bed from him, his brow creased in obvious concern.

“Rudyard?” the call was much smaller, this time, and much more hesitant than it would have usually been--much more hesitant than Rudyard would have liked.

“Ch-Chapman,” Rudyard forced himself to croak, nodding as sagely as he could muster and willing the trembling of his elbows (still holding him up at the edge of the mattress) to cease.

“You--” Eric hesitated, before raising a hand to rub wearily at his brow. “Rudyard, we’ve been over this. It’s just...It’s just Eric.”

“Right,” Rudyard murmured, not really believing the words that were leaving his lips, seemingly of their own accord, at any rate. “Just Eric.” he repeated, hollowly.

“Yes, I--” Eric groaned slightly, his face taking on an almost pleading expression, and his eyes (still that startling blue, but infinitely warmer, now) never leaving Rudyard’s. “You were...Well, you were thrashing and--well, and--”

“And?” Rudyard demanded, when it seemed that Eric wasn’t going to continue, attempting to ignore the sickening sense of guilt he could feel tugging at his stomach at the sharpness of his tone, and ultimately failing.

Things were starting to come entirely back into focus now, and the reluctant pain etching at the edges of Eric Chapman’s expression was becoming much, much harder to bare, as they did.

“And you were whimpering.” Eric murmured, finally, swallowing slightly when Rudyard (automatically, without really meaning to) shrunk back slightly at the words. “Another nightmare?” he pressed on, when it was clear that Rudyard wasn’t going to respond.

Mutely, his throat much too tight to respond verbally at this point, Rudyard nodded, his gaze dropping to study the long, seemingly endless expanse of comforter stretching between the two of them.

It wasn’t something he liked to admit to, but after all the time they’d spent together--the time they’d spent sleeping side by side (nearly a year, now), such occurrences had become almost commonplace (though less now than they had been), and it seemed ridiculous to continue to deny it.

As the thought itself entered Rudyard’s mind, it was as if he had broken out of some kind of a trance, and immediately he burst out of whatever momentary paralysis had briefly taken hold of him; moving forward with a near startling ferocity to wrap his arms firmly around Eric Chapman’s waist--Eric, who’d been waiting with his arms already open.

“There, now.” Eric murmured, at once, leaning down to press a firm kiss to the top of Rudyard’s head and pulling him impossibly closer. “It’s alright. It’s over now, at least. I love you, and--”

“Me?” Rudyard snorted, before he could stop himself, a sick bitterness creeping up his chest along with the words like a cold and heavy bile. He snorted again, softly, “The ‘ _monster of Piffling Vale_ ’?”

Eric tensed beneath him, and Rudyard immediately felt guilty for speaking his mind, at all.

“Is--” Eric breathed, “Is that what this is all about?”

When Rudyard refused to respond, opting instead to turn his face into Eric’s collar and breathe in the disgustingly _perfect_ scent of the disgusting perfect man, for just a moment, said man prodded, “Love?”

“It’s--” Rudyard found himself responding, breathing out an irritated huff before continuing. “It’s not important.” 

“Well certainly it is, if it’s been bothering you for this long.” Eric took a long, steadying breath, his chest expanding slightly against Rudyard’s cheek. “It’s been years, love…”

“Well excuse me for--for continuing to have the gall to experience real, human feelings, then.” Rudyard snapped, his cheeks heating in embarrassment, and made to pull away. “After all, it’s not as if that’s the sort of thing you’re always trying to encourage me to be more in tune with, anyway, Mr. Psychiatrist. In _fact--_ ”

“Okay!” Eric interrupted, pulling him closer and effectively silencing any more complaints Rudyard could have possibly conceived (very few at this point, anyway, though it wasn’t like Eric needed to know that). “You’re right, and,” he paused, chuckling slightly, “You know I was rubbish at that job, anyway.”

Rudyard hesitated, still entirely tense, before allowing himself to relax back against the taller man with a sigh. “That would make two of us.” he murmured, somewhat bitterly.

Eric chuckled again, then seemed to sober slightly as he tightened his hold, one hand rising to begin rubbing soothingly at one of Rudyard’s shoulders. “You’re alright, though?” he muttered, finally.

Rudyard hummed noncommittally, allowing his eyes to slip closed as he burrowed back against Eric Chapman’s strong and sturdy weight--the most comforting presence he had felt in a long while.

When it seemed that this was going to be the only reply he received, Eric sighed, and tipped his head so that his lips were pressed firmly against the crown of Rudyard’s head. “I love you,” he murmured against the thatch of dark curls. “Don’t you dare ever doubt it. I do.”

“Hm…” Rudyard hummed, burrowing impossibly closer and pressing his nose against Eric’s neck. “S’nice to hear. Say it again?”

The small, fragility of the words rang clear between them (much to Rudyard’s embarrassment), though Eric was kind enough not to point it out. “I love you,” he repeated instead, without hesitation, pressing his lips again to the top of Rudyard’s head. “So, so much.”

“I--” Rudyard croaked, clearing his throat past the lingering tightness and taking a deep, steeling breath. “You too.”

The words were softly spoken; barely there, truth be told.

But they were there, and the soft smile Rudyard felt pressing against the crown of his head told him as much.

And so they lay, basking in the golden sunlight of the early morning and wrapped totally in one another; feeling, for a rare change, totally and completely at peace with the world.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so mad that i actually did this. 
> 
> (find me [here!](http://elijahwoodnot.tumblr.com))


End file.
